


Let This Moment Linger

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Blood, F/M, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, One-sided Erik/Christine, Pharoga overtones, Redemption, Regrets, confused feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is to be a quiet night on the Rue de Rivoli. At least, that is the plan until there comes the frantic knocking on the door, and Darius lets in a blood-stained Vicomte and Opera Ghost. Swathed in candlelight, the Daroga is left with a tumbling mass of regrets and wishes in his head, the clock endlessly ticking down to the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let This Moment Linger

**Author's Note:**

> This is AU to basically all interpretations - as one might imagine - though it is closer to LeRoux than to Kay and for this reason the Persian/Daroga has been named Nidal.

It is to be a quiet night on the Rue de Rivoli. Nidal knows this, for every night of late has been a quiet night. Erik has not visited in some time, having warned him that he would be quite busy composing. It is at once a relief and a concern, for a listless resignation has befallen him. He has not been himself in several months, since the abduction of Mademoiselle Daaé, really. Such has been the extent of his listlessness, he has not troubled the managers since that night, contenting himself with composing and whatever other quiet activities he gets up to alone, in between Nidal drawing him out for games of chess and tea.

All is still but for the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, the soft crackling of the flames in the grate, the rustle of the pages of _L’Epoque_ between Nidal’s fingers. It is a portrait of idle peace, of comfortable solitude, unlike the subdued quiet of Erik’s underground abode. Nidal has visited him several times between chess games, to assure himself that he is indeed still living. He tried to persuade him to move in with himself and Darius, he can say that much at least, but Erik merely shook his head and plucked at the strings of his violin. ( _Erik would not be very good company, Daroga_ , he murmured, not meeting his eyes. _He is far too busy as it is._ Another man might have dragged him forcefully aboveground in an attempt to pull him out of his misery, but Nidal has known him too long to try such things. He might stay a night, but by morning would have disappeared and this time would ensure he would not be found so easily. No, best to let him stay down there and keep an eye on him.)

Nidal shakes his head and focusses back on the newspaper in his hands. Tonight, the printed words dance before his heavy eyes. He is reasonably certain that he’s read this same sentence five times, though the words refuse to permeate through the fog of his mind. French is an obstinate language when each letter refuses to stay still. Perhaps he will go to bed. He is not the young man that he once was, after all, and his adventure with the Vicomte de Chagny through the bowels of the Opera House has left him tired, though it has been some time now. The newspaper ought to make some sense in the morning anyway, when he is rested enough for his thoughts to not drift into wonderings of Erik’s doings.

Darius brings him tea, lightly flavoured with lemon, and he nods his thanks, carrying it into his room. The lamp is already simmering low – Darius has anticipated his move once again. Is he really getting that predictable in his old age? He was never a young hellion, to be sure (Erik once argued that he was never young, though that’s beside the point and there _may_ have been opium involved) but he would like to think that he was _never_ predictable. How terrifyingly mundane it is, to be reduced to such predictability. He needs a new adventure.

(Not that he’s upset over the end of the last adventure. On the contrary, he’s delighted that he didn’t have to kill Erik and everything has worked out all right at last. Sometimes, though, he wonders what it might be like to still feel needed, to have a purpose instead of such peace in this house.)

He can feel his lips twitching into a faint smile. He’s getting to sound too much like Erik. In that case, it’s _definitely_ time to get some sleep.

He sets his tea down on the bedside table, and his pocket watch beside it. The tea might refresh him enough for him to read another while once he is settled in bed. The _Rubaiyat_ is sitting patiently in the top drawer, after all. He throws his waistcoat over the back of his desk chair, and is just setting to work pulling his shirt out of his trousers when there comes frantic knocking on the door. He hears the familiar tread – and soft, muffled curses - of Darius crossing to answer it, and frowns, tucking his shirt back in. Who could it be at this time? He is certainly not expecting anyone, and besides, Erik _never_ knocks.

Hushed voices he can’t quite hear, fast words muffled by the walls. Nidal shrugs his waistcoat on, pocketing his watch again.

“Quick, master!” Darius’ voice is tight with worry, and Nidal’s heart pounds. What could have happened to worry calm, cool-headed Darius? Propriety bedamned!  He doesn’t bother with the buttons of his waistcoat, simply pulls the bedroom door open and rushes back to the living room.

Both Darius and the Vicomte de Chagny are kneeling beside a man stretched along the divan – Darius ripping the man’s shirt open, while the Vicomte – a smear of blood standing out starkly against his white face - grips his hand tight. Their joined fingers are stained with blood, the man’s face slack even beneath his black mask.

His black mask.

The world tilts on its axis, and Nidal is beside Erik’s side with no recollection of crossing the room. He pushes Darius’ hands out of the way, directing him to boil water and fetch towels in a voice which is far too steady for the pounding of his heart. Erik. Oh, dear Allah, no.

“The mask, Vicomte,” he murmurs, probing gently at the bullet wound just beneath Erik’s ribs. “Take off his mask.” The Vicomte nods and gently removes the mask covering Erik’s face. Erik’s eyes flutter but don’t open and Nidal’s heart clenches. There is comparatively little blood – it trickles in a steady stream from the small bullet hole, staining Erik’s shirt and the divan under him. More is smeared across his stomach and chest, but there is not that much, really. Not as much as Nidal might have expected, and he almost allows himself to feel a little hopeful, pressing down hard on the wound with a folded towel that Darius passes to him. A low moan slips past Erik’s parted thin lips and a voice that sounds terribly like his echoes in Nidal’s brain. _If there is little blood, it means that all of the bleeding is inside. The bullet is plugging some of the flow for now, but the damage is done._ _To move suddenly might shift it from its place and cause a haemorrhage. Without a haemorrhage there is some hope, if no infection sets in. Abdominal wounds, however, are likely to become infected. Without very particular care they invariably prove fatal._

Nidal’s stomach flips and it takes all of his resolve not to swoon here on top of Erik, his tea threatening to come up again. _Haemorrhage. Infection. Fatal._ A collection of words whose meanings are clear enough, but matched together and applied to Erik that meaning doesn’t quite settle into his mind. 

“He needs a doctor,” he murmurs distantly, feeling his lips move and hearing himself say the words without deciding to do so. The blood is seeping through the towel, white stained scarlet now, welling up between his fingers as he pushes down. A choked-off noise in Erik’s throat goes right to his heart, and he has to blink hard against the tears threatening in his eyes.

“He did not permit it.”  The Vicomte’s voice trembles and Nidal looks from the blood to the young man – the _boy_ really – kneeling beside him. His face is bone-white, hands shaking, one holding the mask the other holding Erik’s limp hand, the long, slender fingers loose between his own shorter ones. It is on Nidal’s lips to send Darius for a glass of brandy to steady the Vicomte when a glass is pressed into the young man’s hand, forcing him to drop the mask. The Vicomte sips it, and his voice is steadier when he speaks again. “I told him I’d take him to one, but he insisted I come here instead. He said his face…” He trails off, eyes drawn to that distorted, skull-like face turned away from them, hollow and slack in unconsciousness.

“Damn his face!” The words are forceful, anger flaring in Nidal’s heart. That damn face! The man needs a doctor and he worries about his face? Such a time for vanity!

As soon as the anger flares it settles again, his hands oddly disconnected so that he does not feel the blood but sees it well enough. It would be easy to be angry, to get upset over such a thing as refusing to see a doctor on account of one’s face. Deep down, of course, Nidal understands. A doctor might only turn him into a curiosity, a _specimen,_ and Erik has deeply feared such a thing ever since he sought his solitude. A sob tears itself from his throat. Oh, Erik.

“Da…ro…ga.” The word is broken, hoarse with pain and laboured breaths, and it draws Nidal’s attention back to Erik lying so still on the divan. His face is still turned away, eyes closed and brow furrowed. “Daroga, I – ah.” His breath hitches, jaw clenched and fingers gripping the Vicomte’s tight, knuckles white. He whimpers, shifting beneath the pain of Nidal’s hands on his wound.

“It’s all right, Erik. I’m here.” He murmurs the words as soothingly as he can, though he is quite sure that Erik does not know where he is.

“I killed him, Daroga. “ His voice is high, tight, the words a rush. “My lasso…killed him...I promised.” His eyes flicker open, rolling wildly before coming to rest on Nidal, the gleaming yellow gaze starry and dazed. “Make it deep, Daroga. Promise.” He trembles, eyes pleading. Nidal can see the pounding of his heart in the quick throb of the veins in his neck. Such a fast pulse can't be good for such bleeding. “Promise.”

“Sshh, Erik. Easy. We’ll talk about it later. Just take it easy.” He has to settle him, he must settle him so that he doesn’t bleed out right now before Nidal has a chance to do anything about it. He’d reach out and stroke back his hair, if he wasn’t afraid of what moving his hands might do. He flashes the Vicomte a glance, though the boy is looking away. A heartbeat later de Chagny places his hand on Erik’s forehead anyway, and murmurs something soft that Nidal can’t make out.

“Bury…deep. Promise.” Erik’s pleading eyes don’t let go of Nidal’s own, gaze unwavering.

It all coalesces in Nidal’s mind as he looks into his eyes, and he has to fight back another sob. Bury him deep. Of course he wants to be buried deep, well away from prying eyes that would put him on display. There is no use arguing with him that he is not dying. His refusal to have a doctor has seen to that, and likely the outcome would be the same if a doctor did attend. With an abdominal wound like that…

Yet, yet Nidal can’t simply acquiesce to his request. How can he be dying? It isn’t right, it can’t be. Erik is supposed to outlive them all in unhinged solitude, not die on a divan with a bullet in his belly.  (It is _not right_ , not _fair_. He is _not allowed_ to die now like this just when everything is going all right, or at least as all right as it can be. But he’s looking at him with those eyes and it’s his blood seeping through Nidal’s fingers and it must be true but it _can’t be_.) Nidal clamps down on his panic, and swallows. Panic will do neither him nor Erik nor the Vicomte any good now and it is unreasonable to expect Darius to carry the burden of caring for all three of them.  Still, he cannot agree to Erik’s burial, not now, not like this.

“You’re not dying, Erik. You’re not. We’ll save you, I promise. You just have to fight.” And his voice almost cracks, but he holds it together, as calm as he can be when his heart is pounding hard.

Erik’s lips twitch into what could be a smile, though it is difficult to tell with such a distortion. “Please, Daro…ga. Both know that…is not…true.”

“Erik –“

“Please.” His fingers are white again around the Vicomte’s, eyes wide and breaths shallow. “Please.”

And in spite of himself, Nidal finds himself nodding. Anything to get him to settle. (He might even agree to fighting the Vicomte and arranging for Mademoiselle Daaé to marry Erik now if he thought it would settle him.) And maybe, maybe it is a comfort to Erik, to know this much about his eternal Fate. “All right, Erik. All right.”

Erik sighs. “Thank…you.” His brow is smooth again, eyes flickering briefly before they roll back, and he sinks deeper into the divan. For a moment, Nidal fears he’s died as simple as that, then the harsh breathing reaches his ears and a wave of selfish relief washes over him. Not dead. Not yet, at least.

Darius appears with the boiled water, cooled now so as not to scald, and Nidal eases the pressure on Erik’s wound, taking another towel and cleaning some of the smeared blood away. More wells up out of the bullet hole, trickling down his side in a dark rivulet. He wrings out the towel in the water and repeats the process. Darius appears again with a damp cloth and dabs the sweat away from Erik’s clammy forehead, and the Vicomte murmurs softly at each whimper of pain. More than once Nidal picks out Mademoiselle Daaé’s name, though he cannot listen when he is fighting so hard to stop the bleeding.  He tunes out the Vicomte, shrouded only by the ticking clock and Erik’s stuttering breaths.  He gets the blood cleaned, and the wound plugged as best as he can, and with Darius’ help sacrifices some of the linens to wrap them as tight as he can around the bullet hole and Erik’s ribs in the hopes that it makes some difference.

“Tell me, Vicomte, what happened,” Nidal requests eventually, sitting back on his heels when the work is done. It is not enough, it _cannot_ be enough, not with the bullet still lodged somewhere inside of Erik, and yet there is a certain amount of satisfaction in having done _something_. Slowly, he changes places with the Vicomte so that he is the one by Erik’s head. It feels like hours have passed since the knock on the door, but his watch says that it can only be twenty minutes. Never have twenty minutes stretched on so long.

“He saved my life,” the Vicomte whispers, and whatever it was that Nidal was expecting to hear – frankly, he can’t be sure – it wasn’t that. “I was…walking, to clear my thoughts, and two men attacked me. I didn’t see Erik until one of them was on the ground with that rope around his neck. The other one fired a revolver and then he was on the ground too. It all happened so fast, I – Erik was looking at them. I hadn’t seen where the bullet had gone until, until he collapsed. I caught him as he fell. It was too – I,” he swallows and nods to himself, taking a deep breath. “I’ll send for Christine,” he murmurs. “She might…oh, God.”

“I’ll go for her, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Darius already has his coat pulled on, and he looks to Nidal, who nods at him. Christine. She might be a help to Erik, might be a comfort to him now, even if he’s unconscious. She’ll certainly be a comfort to the Vicomte who, even after the brandy, looks on the point of collapse. Darius sets a cup of lemon tea down on the floor. “If he wakes, give him this. I’ve put some laudanum in it. I’ll be as quick as I can.” He swirls out the door without another word.

The silence stretches on, two minutes, three. Nidal counts the ticks of the clock, and dabs at the sweat beading on Erik’s forehead. He’s positive that he’s never looked so grey before, eyes moving slowly beneath their lids.

_It might not be too late,_ a traitorous voice whispers in the back of his mind. _A surgeon now might still be able to save him. He could extract the bullet and stitch the veins closed. Men have to live much longer without help on battlefields, and you’ve already done so much for him. Yes, it looks bad but surely it can't be_ that _bad. And if he was worried about becoming a curiosity you could smuggle him away when he’s recovering. Is it not more important that he live? When Darius returns send him away to find a surgeon. It’s Erik. He’s survived so much in the past. Surely if he’s given the chance he can survive this too._

It’s tempting, oh so tempting, to listen to that little voice. To send Darius away so that he might return with a man to save Erik’s life. Another man would do it, would _insist_ on doing it. Yet, yet he looks down on that pallid face lying propped on the divan, at the gaping hole where a nose should have been and the far-too-deep eyes and knows that he can't betray his trust that way. Not now. Not when he specifically sought him out.

Nidal brushes the damp cloth over the throbbing pulse in Erik’s neck, framed by the pristine white collar of his dress shirt, brushing his chin just so, and sighs. _No. This is the way it must be_.

“I never wanted this to happen,” the Vicomte whispers, breaking into Nidal’s thoughts, and there are tears now trickling from his blue eyes. “I didn’t mean, I-I‘m sorry, Erik.” He presses his lips to the hand he’s still holding. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to save me.” A beat, and he swallows, his words terribly soft as he murmurs, “Why did you do it? Why?”

“For Chris…tine.” Erik’s voice is painfully low, surprising both of them though his lips barely move. “She,” he swallows, “groom must…make wed…ding.” His breath catches in his throat, and he gasps, coughing. He coughs, and coughs, and strains to breathe and Nidal can’t bear to watch him struggle so he slips in behind him on the divan, raising Erik’s poor battered body and laying his head against his shoulder, rocking him gently until the coughing settles. Carefully, he places the cup of laudanum-laced tea to his lips, and watches as Erik sips at it. He shakes his head when it’s half gone, and Nidal sets the cup back down. Erik takes a breath and sighs, smiling sadly up at him, eyes shining yellow in the low light. “My…dear Da…roga. Apolo…gies for…the mess.”

It takes all of Nidal’s strength to force himself to smile down at him. His facial muscles object to working in that way at a time such as this. “Don’t worry about it, Erik. You’re more important than any mess."

Erik’s breath hitches and Nidal is afraid he’s going to start coughing again, then he feels hot tears trickle down his neck. Erik’s crying and he’s dying, and there’s nothing that Nidal can do about it except be here holding him. And he wants to run, run far away and hide and pretend that Erik’s alive and well and will stay that way always. But he can’t because Erik needs him _here_ and he can almost believe that Erik _wants_ him here.

“No one…has ever been…so kind…to poor Erik…before.” He swallows and takes a deep breath. “Don’t…let…go.”

“I won’t. I promise.” This, at least, is a promise he can keep.

The Vicomte spreads a blanket over Erik’s trembling form, hiding the blood-spotted bandages from view. He has composed himself again and washed the streak of blood from his face, though he remains pale and wan.

“Sorry about…chess,” Erik murmurs drawing Nidal’s attention back to him, eyes dropping again. “The game.” Their chess game, left aside for weeks because Erik was busy composing. The game they can never finish and he’s worrying about it now?

“I think you had it won, Erik. It doesn’t matter.” What does chess matter in the face of this?

“Per…haps. Oh, Nidal.” It’s the first time in years Erik has used his given name, and tears leap again unbidden to his eyes. For so long he has been Daroga and now…Now it is like a kick in the chest, that this really is the end.

“It’s all right.” Such a weight of things left unsaid in that simple phrase, in the simple uttering of his name, but he can’t blame Erik for being unable to muster the strength to speak them when he can’t either.

Erik sighs and swallows, squeezing the Vicomte’s hand weakly.

“Take care…of her…Ra…oul. May Erik call…you Ra…oul? Prom…ise me, Ra…oul. Prom…ise.”

“Call me whatever you like, Erik. I promise I’ll look after her forever.” The Vicomte is steady, his gentile education coming out now, and he squeezes Erik’s hand in return.

Erik nods against Nidal’s neck, eyes closed again.“Good. She is per…fect. An ange…l. Erik…worries…so. Darl…ing…child. If he could but…hear her…once more,” he groans, a desperate note in his voice, lips twisting, “Daro…ga!” He gasps, and sighs, head lolling but he’s not gone yet because Nidal can still hear him breathing, each breath harsh and whistling.

Nidal taps his cheek, the Vicomte slapping his hand. Their voices entwine in a chorus of, “Erik! Wake up, Erik! She’s on her way. You _will_ hear her. Wake up for her!” He groans, face briefly tightening in pain, but doesn’t wake, too far gone already in unconsciousness. Nidal sighs, smoothing back his thin hair, and brushes his lips over his clammy forehead and silently wishes that the Vicomte had been more careful in going for his walk, his heart twisting all the while.

So many things he wishes he could have said to Erik. So many apologies for the friction – dissipated in these last months – that always somehow existed between them, for relentlessly hunting him down and monitoring him. (Apologies for not being the friend that he should have been, for not leaving Persia with him to look out for him, for not finding him sooner and hauling him out from under that Opera House to live in the light.) So many _thank_ _yous_ for the fact of his presence. If not for Erik he would not be an exile, but if not for Erik he would not have had so much beauty, so much adventure. There may have been misery on both sides, but there was so much wonder too, and for so long he resented Erik as merely a duty to attend to. What he wouldn't give to take back those uncharitable thoughts now, and replace them with ones of kindness, and of love. Because he does love Erik, really, in an odd sort of way. He cares about him though he’s tried so very hard not to, and he likes to think that Erik cares about him too, in some way. Surely if Erik didn't care about him and trust him, he wouldn't have asked to be brought here in the certain knowledge that he is dying., Perhaps it is merciful for Erik to go now, to escape this world which has treated him so very cruelly. Yet Nidal, selfish creature that he is, wishes that he could be well for one more night. One more chess game, one more impromptu violin performance, one more evening listening to him complain about the fools that run his Opera House, and listening to his soft hopes, when he’s worn out and mournful, that the Vicomte will take good care of Mademoiselle Daaé, for she is a treasure of unprecedented worth. And he would listen, and nod, and assure him that _yes, the boy loves her very much and she will want for nothing for as long as she lives_. He cradles him close and wishes that he could take away every ounce of the pain that he must surely be in, and has ever been in.

He realises that he has been whispering to Erik, and hopes that he hasn’t said anything indiscreet in front of the Vicomte, though the Vicomte doesn’t look to be in any fit state to notice.

The door swings open, and in rushes Christine Daaé. She goes straight to her fiancé and enfolds him in her arms, clinging tight as if to assure herself that he really is all right. Darius kneels by Erik’s side and seeks out the pulse in his neck. He doesn’t say anything, merely glances at Nidal with a look that says far too much, then stands and bustles off. Mademoiselle Daaé takes his place in a moment and cradles Erik’s still hand between both of hers.

Her eyes are filled with tears as she softly calls his name. “Erik. Erik, wake up. It’s me, Christine. I’m here.” Her voice is so sweet and kind and Erik’s eyelids flutter. “That’s it, Erik. Come on. Just open your eyes. Please. Just for me.” She kisses his fingers gently. “Please.”

“Chris…tine.” Her name is broken by his tongue, gasped by his desperate lips. “Chris…tine.”

“Ssshhh, Erik. It’s all right. I’m here.” She presses his fingers to her lips again. “I’m here.”

“Chris…tine.” Heavy-lidded hazy eyes roll to meet hers, his voice hardly a breath. Never has a name sounded such an effort to utter. He looks at her a long time, eyes roving questioningly slowly over her features, before he speaks again. “Is Erik…dead? Such an angel…surely.” He frowns, shifting uncomfortably.

Mademoiselle Daaé gives him a watery smile, raising his hand to her cheek. “No, Erik, darling. You’re not dead. I’m here, truly.” His fingers move, fingertips softly brushing the tears slipping from her eyes.

“So beau…tiful. Why,” he swallows, “why did Chris…tine come to…her poor Erik…now?”

“How could I not?” she whispers, fresh tears trickling from her eyes, “After everything you’ve done for me?”

“Er-rik is s-sor…ry. Hu-urt you so. F-For-” She cuts him off, pressing a finger to his lips.

“Don't worry about it now, Erik. It doesn't bear thinking about now. I forgive you. Please just, save your strength. All right?”

“Must pro…tect Chris…tine’s boy. Makes…her happy.” He musters a smile for her, trembling fingers squeezing hers. “Of co…urse I saved…him.”

She bows her head and presses a kiss softly, chastely to the corner of his mouth. His eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath, staring at her. “I never kissed you, though I let you kiss me. You have always been very dear to me, Erik, even – always.” She kisses him again, on the cheek, her lips intercepting the tear that trickles from his eye. “I will sing for you, if you wish.”

He sighs, his eyes looking through her, glimmering tears caught in his lashes. “Ple…ease. Take care of…your Vi…comte. He needs look…ing aft…er. He will…make you hap…py.” He swallows, and murmurs faintly, “He loves…you.”

The Vicomte looks away, dabbing at his eyes, then bows his head to kiss the signet ring on Erik’s free left hand. Mademoiselle Daaé smiles at Erik with watery eyes and strokes his hair with all of the tenderness of a mother. He whimpers softly beneath her touch. “I know.” Her voice is soft, and low, and Erik nods.

“Never for…get it. Er,” he swallows convulsively. Darius places the cup of laudanum and tea to his lips and he takes a sip before going on. “Erik can’t…see very well, Chris…tine. I-it’s very…dark.” Nidal sees his lips form the words more than he hears his voice speak them.

“It’s all right. It’s all right. You don’t need to, Erik. I’m here and I’ll stay here. You don’t need to see.” It pierces Nidal’s heart, the painful irony that this mess started with Mademoiselle Daaé unable to see Erik behind the mirror, and now…now he can’t see her either. Erik’s eyes flick sightlessly from side to side, searching. He tries to speak, gasps and coughs, a thin stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Nidal holds him tighter, rocking him as if he were a child until he settles, his eyes closed and breaths coming harsher.

“I love…you.” His lips barely stir, words mumbled, but Mademoiselle Daaé hears anyway, her own lips twisting. “I’m sor…ry. I…” He trails off, his voice fading and she kisses his cheek once more, murmuring softly against his skin.

“I know, Erik. I know. You just rest now, and I’ll be here when you wake.” Her voice cracks, but she goes on. “I promise.”

He nods faintly, and she presses one more kiss softly to his forehead and raises her voice in a soft song. Nidal doesn’t recognise the words, the language incomprehensible, but the feelings are clear, the sentiment. The soft words and gentle, soothing love, so sweet and delicate. A balm, a soft cocoon wrapping around them, around Erik and Nidal and the Vicomte, too, and Darius bustling around lighting candles and stoking the fire. All so soft, and gentle, and soothing.

“An ange…l, Ni…dal.” Erik’s voice, a breathed sigh, catches Nidal off guard and he looks down to see those hazy eyes looking past him. “An ange…l’s v-voice. So beau…tiful.” His eyes slip closed, a soft sigh escaping past his parted lips. His breath is a faint huff of air against Nidal’s neck, head lolling into him. He cradles him as close as he can, taking heart from the fact that he can still feel him breathing.

Mademoiselle Daaé’s song breaks off, her eyes wide with worry. “Is he…gone?” Her words are so small now, so quiet. The voice of a child, almost, as low as if she is afraid she might wake him.

Nidal shakes his head. “No. Not yet.” _But soon,_ he doesn’t add. _Soon_. “Merely unconscious.”

She nods and disentangles her fingers from Erik’s, gently laying his limp hand down. Carefully, she unclasps the crucifix from around her throat, and kisses it, then brings the chain around Erik’s neck and clasps it there, the silver glinting in the candlelight. “It’ll keep you safe,” she whispers softly into his ear, curling her fingers around his again. She bows her head, forehead resting on his arm. “I refuse to believe you’ll go to the fire.” Her words are muffled, half-lost, and Nidal’s heart cracks to hear them. “You were sorry, so very sorry, and you saved Raoul’s life,” her voice is thick with tears again, “you cannot go below.”

It is as if Nidal is half-tethered, watching the scene unfold and not being a part of it. As if it is a different Nidal holding a different, dying Erik with a different Vicomte and Mademoiselle Daaé and a different Darius sitting in his chair and praying silently to himself. It might be a dream, and he will wake by the fire having nodded off over the chess board, Erik watching him expectantly from behind the mask. But he can feel Erik, heavy in his arms and terrifyingly cold though it is not the cold of death, not yet, and knows it is no dream. Oh, if he could turn back the clock he’d visit the Vicomte and warn him not to go walking, not tonight, and he’d insist on Erik coming to play chess for to keep him out of harm’s way. He would not be here, holding his friend, _yes, definitely friend_ , as the life slowly slips from his body.

The minutes trickle into hours, time moving gelatinously slowly. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece worms its way into Nidal’s mind. He will take it in the morning and smash it so that he never has to hear it again, and the echoes of Erik’s breaths in its ticks, endlessly drawing him back to this night. He’ll tear apart the divan so as to never see Erik’s blood staining it again, and burn it piece by piece, along with the clothes he’s wearing now, and the blood-stained towels, and smash the cup containing the cold tea and laudanum. Obliterate every reminder of this night.

Erik fights a long time, even when the fluid rattles his lungs. He keeps sucking in air and sighing it out, the intervals growing longer between each breath. Nidal feels the cold creeping into his own bones as he listens, wishing he could deny to himself that it is taking longer and longer for Erik to draw a breath, wishing he could see those eyes flicker open and regard him warily and hear that tongue lash him with his words. He wills those eyes open, and wills that voice to utter cutting words, and can almost see Erik sitting by his organ, his fingers dancing across the keys. But those eyes remain stubbornly closed, and that tongue still, and Erik is still lying in his arms, his fingers cradled by Mademoiselle Daaé.

“I wish he would have allowed a doctor,” the Vicomte whispers eventually, stroking a hand through his fiancées hair, shocked into numbness as he kneels by the divan.

Nidal sighs, shifting his grip on Erik. “He knew he was going to die. It would have made little difference.” He swallows, summoning the courage he needs for to speak the words that he must in order to comfort the Vicomte. “The placement of the bullet…ensured that it would almost invariably be fatal. If he did not die tonight, he would certainly die in a couple of days from the inevitable infection. If the doctor attempted surgery to remove the bullet, he would probably have died under his hands.” _You didn’t see him, these last few months_ , he almost says. _He was happy, in a way, but he was lost, too. His whole world changed the night he sent the two of you off together. Everything he’d always known, everything he’d felt, dissipated in a moment and he was lost without it. For Erik, it was a whole new kind of suffering.To survive a wound like this, you have to want it with every fibre of your being, and Erik…Somewhere inside I think Erik has always wanted to die._ He can’t say that. Can’t say any of that, and yet deep down knows the truth of it. There were too many close calls in Persia, and though he fought his wounds and survived, there was always that darkness lurking in his eyes, as he lay there too weak to move.  So Nidal pushes the thoughts away and instead says, “I hate to admit it, but a doctor would likely only have prolonged his suffering. This way, he has the comfort of not being alone with a stranger when the time comes.” _At least he knows we care, all of us. Even the Vicomte. Even if we didn’t always show it, he has that._ And he can almost believe that Erik was happy, in those moments he was conscious, to die here like this in Nidal’s arms.

The Vicomte swears under his breath, and pours another brandy from the decanter. He coughs as he swallows it down, then strides to the door and out into the night air. Mademoiselle Daaé sighs, pressing Erik’s hand to her lips.

The clock ticks on and Erik keeps breathing, each breath gurgling in his throat. Soon the Vicomte comes back in and resumes his vigil.

It is the small hours of the morning when several of the candles flicker out. Nobody moves to relight them, and Erik keeps breathing. The remaining candlelight flickers over the hollows of his face, the hole where there should have been a nose, casting him in shadows. His forehead is cold resting against Nidal’s throat. Darius moves in closer, and the Vicomte wraps his arms around Mademoiselle Daaé’s waist.

Erik sucks in a breath, and holds it in a moment, and it escapes in a long sigh. Nidal counts, waiting for him to take the next one. ( _Breathe, you fool. Just one more breath. Please. Just for me, Erik. Please.)_ Almost a minute passes and then it comes, gurgling in his throat. It can’t drag on much longer. ( _Any minute now_.) Nidal wants him to keep breathing, wants him to live, and yet he knows that it will be so much better for him when he goes. He won’t have to suffer anymore and that can only be a relief to him now. He is not really alive anyway, lying here like this. In some way he is already gone.

He feels it, when it comes. The brief flicker of pain across Erik’s face, the craning of his neck when he tries to take a breath and can’t. He coughs, and fresh blood stains his lips, and though he tries to breathe Nidal can see, _they all can see_ , that he can’t. His legs shift convulsively, fingers twitching in Mademoiselle Daaé’s hand, other hand lying limp on the blanket until Nidal can bear it no longer and takes it and squeezes it tight. His chest is still though he’s choking on the air in his throat and if Nidal could give him breath he would, would force air into his lungs if he could, fill his veins with blood once more if such things were possible. But he can’t, he _can’t_ , and nobody can and so it must go like this, and at least he is not conscious now to feel it.

At last, Erik sinks deeper into Nidal’s arms, head lolling, and falls silent. He is preternaturally still, and limp and Nidal almost can’t breathe himself around the tightness in his throat. His fingers and Mademoiselle Daaé’s meet, fumbling at Erik’s throat for a pulse. The skin is still and cool beneath their touch and Nidal takes his thin wrist, seeking out the jumping beat that he knows he won’t find and doesn’t. His eyes prickle, stingingly hot, and though he’s kept the tears fairly well at bay so far they slip down his cheeks as he slides his hand beneath the blanket and presses it against Erik’s chest. He knows that heart has stopped, and yet he must assure himself of it, be absolutely certain. But there is no drumming beneath his palm and he thinks he might die, too, here on this divan, a gaping chasm tearing open in his chest, so that he, too, is haemorrhaging and he can’t stop it, only hold Erik as close as he possibly can, head to heart as if he were a child, as if he could pass life back into him, and bury his face in that thin hair, and let his tears flow as they will.

* * *

 

They bury him the next night, on the bank of his lake beneath the Opera House. Darius and the Vicomte – Raoul, now, after it all – dig the grave, while Nidal and Mademoiselle Daaé – Christine – prepare Erik. They wash him, and dress him in clean clothes that Christine brings from his house beneath the Opera. She leaves her chain around his neck, the crucifix nestling against his heart under his shirt and onto his finger she slips the wedding ring he gave her when he released her with Raoul. ( _With all my_ love, she whispers softly, and Nidal turns away so as not to listen.) Nidal buys lilacs that morning, and they place them in his grip, his hands folded across his chest. (Nidal also, secretly, swaps their pocket watches, slipping his own into Erik’s waistcoat and placing Erik’s inside of his own pocket, carefully cleaning off the one drop of dried blood that lingers.) Christine doesn’t kiss him, not again, though Nidal brushes his lips against his forehead one more time, lingering there as if he could feel it in the next life, because the twisting in his heart demands it and it seems the thing to do. He squeezes his cold fingers, and then goes to burning the bloodstained clothes of the night before. Christine sings softly as she sews him into a shroud, and if Nidal has to keep his face turned into the fire, then there is no one here who’ll care about his tears.

He can’t understand why he feels like this. He and Erik may have been close in Persia, but those days are long past. They’ve kept their distance, largely, in Paris, in spite of chess games and firelight conversations. It has not been the same, by any means. (Though in some ways it has been better, these last few months, and Erik’s smiles have come easier beneath the mask that reveals his lips, even if those smiles are sad. So many times Nidal has longed to reach across the board and take his hand and squeeze it or to pull him into a hug and soothe away his tears, though he never did, knowing that Erik would not permit it. And now he never can, though how he longs to still.) And though Nidal may often have wished to return to the halcyon days of that tentative friendship, they never managed to breach the years that passed. (There was merely too much between them, too many things left unsaid, too many mistakes.) They are not the same men that they were then. (Were not the same men that they were then. It seems wrong that Erik is gone. It _is_ wrong; his head refuses to accept I, yet it is the truth and he must getting used to thinking of him in the past because no amount of wishing can bring him back now.) And yet he cannot deny that Erik meant something to him, something undefinable and yet so very necessary.

(It almost feels as if he might have lost a lover, this yawning hollowness deep inside of him. He can’t understand it, because he never once thought of Erik in such a way, no matter the depth of friendship he may have felt towards him, the depth of _absolutely platonic_ love. He’s loved him as a man, as a friend, but not romantically.  It’s the shock, he tells himself. The shock and the exhaustion, because how could he sleep when Erik was after dying in his arms? He feels him, even now, lying heavy against him, feels the blood hot between his fingers as he pressed down on the bullet wound, feels the smooth skin beneath his lips as he kissed him.)

Later, Christine sings the requiem Erik had written, having brought it along with his other compositions from the house on the lake when she brought his clothes. Her voice soars high, the tears trickling down her face as they lower him into the grave, and this time there is no need for Nidal to pretend that he is not crying because Raoul and Darius are as well, then Darius insists on filling in the grave himself. He takes the shovel from Nidal’s hands, and as Nidal watches the first shovelful of dirt land on the white-shrouded figure in the grave he feels as if his heart has been pulled still beating from his chest. His knees buckle and Raoul catches him before he can hit the ground, and it must be the same way he caught Erik just last night and, oh, Allah. He’s crying, and he smells lilacs and Christine Daaé is stroking back his hair, and he can hear Erik smilingly say, “Pull yourself together, Daroga” though he never said that in life, certainly not like that, and now he never will.

Afterwards, Darius takes him home and puts him to bed with a cup of tea. And the tea must be drugged because he drops off to sleep and doesn’t dream about Erik though he seems to feel his fingers interlaced with his own. In the morning, he tears apart the divan and burns it piece by piece, burning incense to chase out the lingering heavy copper of blood. The next day, Darius has it replaced with a new divan, and there are lilacs sitting in the vase.

They are both invited to the wedding of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny and Christine Daaé. (A last minute addition, questioned by other, more illustrious guests, and Darius tells Nidal afterwards that Christine passed them off as “old friends” of her late guardians, the Valerius’.) The night before the wedding Nidal visits Erik’s grave and as he walks down he meets Christine walking out. She smiles sadly at him, and kisses his cheek, and passes by. He stands a while in silence on the bank of the lake, needing simply to be there, and as he leaves meets the Vicomte himself on the way down, face sombre and eyes sparkling with tears.

There are lilacs in Christine’s bouquet, alongside lilies and white roses. And there are lilacs in Raoul’s boutonniere and interspersed in the flower arrangements. At the reception they play a handful of unrecognisable compositions alongside familiar operatic and symphonic pieces, and Christine confesses to Nidal quietly that they are ones she and Raoul chose from Erik’s collection because “We would not be here now if it were not for him.” And he remembers the sparks blazing in her eyes as she insisted on taking care of Erik’s body though he’d told her to get some rest, and understands all at once how Erik could have fallen so in love with her.

The happy couple spend a month in Italy, and eight and a half months later Nidal holds a tiny two week old baby boy in his arms named Andreas Erik Guillaume de Chagny, and it’s all that he can do not to cry. Raoul kisses his little son’s forehead and whispers, “He could have let me die, and been there to comfort Christine. Instead he saved me, and allowed us this precious chance. It was the least I could do." He smiles then, and murmurs, “He loves when Christine sings.”

A month later, one year after that blood-soaked night, Nidal and Darius and the three de Chagnys make the journey down to the deep grave on the bank of the Opera House lake. Christine sings, and Raoul lights candles, and Darius holds the sleeping baby Andreas. And as Nidal sets down a bundle of lilacs, a battered black mask nestled in his coat pocket, he feels for the first time as if everything might be all right after all.


End file.
